


2 A.M. in Tokyo

by scheherazade



Category: D-BOYS, Tenimyu RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Relationship Status: It's Really Fucking Complicated, Slice of Life, Tenimyu Extended Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You only drink when Zukki's ignoring you. And you only call me when it's about Adachi, so I assume you drunk-dialing me at one in the morning falls smack in the middle of that Venn diagram."</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 A.M. in Tokyo

**Author's Note:**

> To understand the bar scene, you need to accept that Jinnai Sho and Hirose Daisuke had an epic tragic breakup (c. 2013) — and Hirata Yuuichirou is the rebound (TRUMP 2015 has a lot to answer for).
> 
> The rest of this is just gratuitous self-indulgence.

At 10:41, he calls Zukki, who — having turned into a real-life grandpa at the ripe old age of thirty-two — doesn't pick up.

So neither of them are getting any younger. Still, Araki thinks, going to bed before midnight is a sure sign that you're getting too old for the business. As is waking up at six and feeling like death warmed over because, surprise, turns out there's only so long you can keep yourself running on caffeine and adrenaline and the determination of someone who has somewhere to get to before turning the big three-oh. 

Sleep debts are like credit card bills, apparently; you don't think much of it at first, because it's just the way of things; then after a while you start getting charged interest, and you regret it a little; and then it starts piling up; and then when you're so far behind that you start missing payments altogether — well, that's when they really get you.

Except it's not like you can declare personal bankruptcy on sleep, so maybe Araki needs to think through his metaphors more carefully. That, or sleep.

Either way, it's 10:42 on a Saturday night and Zukki isn't picking up. Araki texts him instead. While waiting for a sign of life, he idly scrolls up to reread their last text conversation.

 _you free on saturday?_ he'd written, following a nonsensical exchange of increasingly nostalgic puns that wouldn't have worked even back in 2006.

 _Yeah,_ Zukki wrote, and then: _Going to that movie with Adachi. Come with!_

_you hate slasher films, you get scared as soon as the lights go off in the theater_

_I DO NOT!! You're the one who clutches people's arms so hard Yuuya nearly dislocated his shoulder._

_he has stickman arms_

_So you don't deny being a complete girl, Araki-san?_

The next text is just a rude gesture in emoji form.

 _LOL,_ was Zukki's reply, which makes Araki grin all over again because he can practically hear how Zukki is sounding out the word to himself, grandpa that he is. _Come to the movie. I'll even sacrifice my beautiful arm. You two can't avoid each other forever._

And yeah, the smile slips off his face just as quickly as it did the first time.

_tempting as your biceps are i'll pass. tell o-chan i said hi._

Which should have been the end of it, except now he's gone and added a new message reading: _was there ever a bet on who'd be the next burnout because i have insider information._

It's been fifteen minutes. Closing out of that conversation, Araki shrugs on a leather jacket and scrolls through the rest of his contacts.

This call connects on the second ring. "Seto Kouji speaking." The background noise is so loud it almost drowns out his voice. "Who's this?"

"Your favorite person in the world." Araki roots for his keys among the mess of trinkets on his dresser. "Did you lose your phone again?"

"Leader-san!" There's a burst of static as Kouji, or maybe someone else, breathes/shouts into the phone. "—off me, you freak. Tomo says hi, or maybe hail. What's up?"

"Depends. Are you at a bar?"

"That new club Adachi's been going on and on about. The music's as shitty as you'd expect off his recommendation, but the bartender's great."

"Meaning you've been shamelessly ogling her ass for how long now?"

"His, actually. And there's plenty to go around — yeah, yeah, Tomo would like to lodge his usual disclaimer—"

Araki snorts. "He should just get a business card that says—"

"—though he's now sitting in Makita's lap so I'm gonna avert my eyes and claim plausible deniability." The noise dies away a fraction, and Kouji says, "So, hey. Wanna come join us for a bit? For old times' sake."

There's a cadence there that makes Araki freeze, just for a split second, key in the lock as he stands outside his apartment door in the half-lit corridor. "Yeah?" It's probably just his imagination. "What, you want to invite Horii, too?"

Kouji's eyeroll is practically audible. "You know what I meant."

"Maybe I want to hear you say it."

"Oh gross, grandpa." But Kouji's laughing, and something tight unravels in Araki's chest. Or maybe just condenses further, sinks heavy into his gut.

Doesn't matter, really, as he's already walking down the stairs. "I got carded at a bar last week, I'll have you know."

"What, were you in India?"

"Shut the fuck up." He smiles at the sound of another laugh, checking his watch — he'll make the next bus if he hurries. "Anyway, yeah. I'll be there in a few."

"Great. See you soon."

He hangs up, wipes the phone screen that's a little smudged from being pressed to his cheek. Three new emails. No new messages.

 

* * *

 

By the time Araki gets there, Tomo is no longer sitting in anyone's lap. Tomo is, however, in high spirits — or possibly high on spirits, difficult to tell. He has a captive audience in one Arai Atsushi, who looks appropriately impressed and laughs disbelievingly at all the right moments in Tomo's story. On the other side of the wraparound booth, Makita and Hirata are bickering over who's buying the next round. Kouji, sitting smack in the middle, is checking his phone.

Araki pulls a couple bills out of his wallet and lays them on the table. "Next round's on me."

Five pairs of eyes turn to him simultaneously. "Arayan!" Tomo throws up his arms in delight, nearly taking out Atsushi's eye in the process. "Sit, sit! Shove over, kids, make some room."

"Go get the drinks," Kouji tells Makita, who gives him a disbelieving look.

"But I got the last—ow!"

Kouji looks pointedly unabashed for someone who just kicked a coworker under the table. "You're not paying for these, just carrying them. Now shoo."

Hirata hauls his erstwhile partner-in-crime up by the arm, snickering into his shoulder. "C'mon, Makki. Senpai's orders."

"I'm your senpai, too, technically," Makita sighs, before he's dragged out of earshot.

Araki slides into the vacated booth space. "Who invited Hirata?"

"Makki," Tomo says, even as Kouji snorts, "He invited himself."

"They were at dinner earlier," Atsushi adds.

"Didn't seem right to separate them," Tomo says with a sage chinwaggle.

Kouji grimaces and stretches his arms. "There's nothing right about those two." And Araki could have moved, so that Kouji's arms came down on thin air instead of his shoulders. But that would have been even more obvious. "You know for a while I actually thought Hirata was straight?"

Tomo chokes on a sip of water. "You thought— Have you _met_ him?"

"We've met _you_ ," Araki and Kouji chorus together. Atsushi blinks at all three of them. Kouji's foot nudges his under the table, and Araki rolls his eyes. "It's all relative anyway."

"Pretty much," says Kouji. "Like, on a scale of one to Channaka—"

"—Akutsu Shintarou is someone who's actually off the charts," Araki finishes for him, and watches as Atsushi chokes on the same glass of water that had gotten Tomo not seconds before.

Tomo pounds Atsushi's back, which probably hurts more than it helps, judging by the interesting shade of red that is now Atsushi's entire face. Kouji snickers, and Tomo gives the pair of them a sidelong glance. 

"I object to your made-up Kinsey scale, for the record."

"Don't worry, we'll pencil you in for 'one'."

Araki grins at the dry tone of Kouji's voice. They've had this conversation before, this conversation and all its possible iterations, probably. There's not much else to do, honestly, on all those interminable bus rides between one city to the next, before and between event after event, promoting a single as if their lives depended on it.

Everything seemed more urgent, then. Or at least purposeful, and evidently so. These days, the evidence feels as worn out as the soft edges of Tomo's face. Which breaks into a grin, unexpectedly, and he says,

"You're forgetting Mitsuya." Tomo raises both eyebrows. "Gonna need a bigger scale."

Atsushi laughs at that, and Araki, too, despite himself. From the corner of his eye, he spots Makita and Hirata returning with a tray full of beers. Kouji retracts his arm as Araki scoots closer to make room.

"What are we gossiping about?" Hirata asks, sliding into the booth and almost on top of Makita.

"You, obviously," Tomo declares. "Nothing personal. It's just our duty, you know, making sure that you're not about to have your wicked way with our unsuspecting kouhai."

Makita freezes in the middle of handing Kouji a beer.

Kouji plucks the bottle from his nerveless fingers "We were just waiting for Arayan to get here so we had a full panel."

Hirata blinks, looking from Atsushi (who shrugs, unhelpful) to Makita (who's studiously avoiding eye contact) and back to Tomo. "Um. Okay?" He grins and spreads his arms, amiable as ever. "Shoot."

"Where are you two going with this?" Araki whispers close to Kouji's ear.

Kouji just pours the beer into a clean glass, which he then places in front of Araki. He himself takes a swig straight from the bottle. At the look that Araki gives him, Kouji lowers the beer and — not breaking eye contact even once — clinks his bottle lightly against the glass. "Cheers."

It seems really obvious, suddenly, how close they are. He can feel the seam of Kouji's skin-tight jeans pressed against his thigh.

Tomo bangs his hand on the table. "Let's not waste time, then! We begin with a simple question—"

"Tomo," Makita says, and it comes out more like a warning growl.

Under the table, Kouji's foot snakes around Araki's ankle to kick Makita again. Araki puts his boot in the way when the latter attempts to retaliate. Makita gives them both a dirty look; Araki sips from his glass.

"It's just one question, Makki. A formality, really." Tomo leans an elbow on the table, narrowing his eyes at Hirata in what's probably supposed to be a variation on menacing. "Hirata Yuuichirou," he says, and Makita takes a long swig of beer, "—just what, exactly, is your relationship with Jinnai Sho?"

Makita actually spits out his drink, Araki nearly chokes on a laugh, and Atsushi's look of polite disinterest morphs with a spluttered, "Wait, are _you_ the reason—"

"Ah," says Hirata, talking over the chaotic not-quite-silence. "I thought you might ask that."

Which only adds fuel to the fire, as Makita rounds on him ("Why the hell would you think that!") and Atsushi attempts to curl up on himself to avoid Tomo's sudden interest in his reaction ("Have you been withholding gossip about Jinnai's breakup? Spill!"). Kouji taps his beer on the table like it's a gavel, and Araki elbows him.

"How many drinks did you all have before I got here?"

Kouji thinks about it for a moment, then grins. "Enough."

Understatement, probably, as Kouji's hand lands on his knee. His palm is warm, getting warmer when his fingers curl toward the inside of Araki's thigh.

"—told you to leave him alone!" Makita is saying hotly. "You _know_ what he—"

"Sho doesn't mind!" Hirata protests. "Anyway, he likes me, so if anyone—"

"—not that his cryptic twitter isn't entertaining," Tomo informs a red-faced Atsushi. "But you're acting like this is the biggest secret ever when half the agency already knew about him and Hirose—"

"Plenty of people have secrets!" Atsushi yelps.

Tomo's grin broadens. "Oh? And what secrets are you keeping from me?"

"What— No, that's not what I—"

"No, no, tell me more about Shin-kun. For example, I still don't fully understand—"

Kouji's hand creeps steadily upward, and no one pays them any mind. Araki keeps his eyes trained on the scene unfolding before them, moving only to avoid one of Makita's more emphatic gestures that might have otherwise given him a bruised rib.

Personal space is relative, too, he figures, when you've got this many people crammed into a booth and into your life. It's people who take up all the breathing space that you'd rather keep for yourself — and that's the alcohol talking, Araki knows, but so what. Kouji's hand is warm and sure, his hair smells like strawberries and smoke, and listening to Atsushi dodge Tomo's increasingly invasive line of questioning while Makita tries to explain what or who exactly happened to make Jinnai Sho as broken as he is, well — there are worse things, surely, than Kouji resting his head on Araki's shoulder as if proximity were comfort enough.

 

* * *

 

He leans against a lamp post and listens to his phone ring. The repetitive sound is almost soothing, dampened through the pleasant buzz in his head and all along his limbs.

"Hello?"

It takes Araki a second to remember who he'd called. "Yuuya!"

"Yes," comes the deadpan reply, "it is indeed I, the great and wise and powerfully sleep-deprived Endou Yuuya. Why are you calling at one in the morning?"

"Is it that late?" The lamp post bumps into his shoulder — or, no, it should be the other way around. Araki runs a hand through his hair. "I think I'm a little drunk."

"No shit." A shuffling sound as Yuuya switches his phone to the other hand, or possibly his shoulder. "You're out with Kouji? Or are you calling for bail money?"

"Why can't it be both?"

"Because Kouji's too smart to get nabbed for public indecency. You, on the other hand."

"I am so decent," Araki protests, indignant. "In public. I am very publicly decent, I'll have you know." A pause. "In private, though..."

Yuuya waits patiently for Araki's giggle fit to die down before asking, "Where are you? I can come pick you up, or call a cab or something."

Araki leans against the lamp post. If he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, it's almost like lying down. "I'm fine, Yuuyan. Stop mothering me."

"You're the one who called me."

"Mm. I did." Araki thinks about it for a second. "Why are _you_ awake?"

"I have a four-month-old child. I'm always awake."

Oh, right. "I should visit you — all three, no, four of you. Does Ebita count? Maybe I should bring a gift."

"You should," Yuuya agrees. "I'll even make sure Adachi's not here when you come bearing gifts, lest you feel suddenly compelled to come down with the flu again."

"I was lying about that."

"I figured." Yuuya doesn't sound the least bit surprised, or disappointed. "Arayan, you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Probably. I don't drink a lot these days."

"Yeah, because you only drink when Zukki's ignoring you." A pause. "And you only call me when it's about Adachi, so I assume you drunk-dialing me at one in the morning falls smack in the middle of that Venn diagram."

When Araki opens his eyes, the street lamp is blinding. He squints at the dark sky beyond its radius instead. "Why're you using your vocabulary on me?"

"Because you're kind of being an ass?" Yuuya sighs. "Sorry. Look, at least tell me where you are. I'll call you a cab and we can talk—“

"I'm hanging up on you now." Araki holds the phone in front of his face so he doesn't have to listen anymore. "Good night, Papa Yuuya!"

He ends the call. His phone flashes back to the home screen, and an alert appears: two new messages. Both from Kouji.

_just dropped tomo off at his place, heading home now_

and,

_wanna come over?_

 

* * *

 

It's been a while, but walking through Kouji's front door still feels like walking off the edge of a cliff. All it takes is that first step, just one — and the rest is simple mechanics, instinct, the way things fall.

Kouji doesn't even offer him a drink. The door is barely closed before Kouji has him backed against it, one hand reaching around to turn the lock before settling at his hip. 

"You're here," Kouji breathes, after he's sucked a bruising mark on Araki's neck and left his lips bitten red.

Araki runs his hand along Kouji's back, feeling every knob of his spine through the thin t-shirt. "You want to talk about it?"

Kouji yanks his belt off in lieu of a response; Araki doesn't ask again.

And this, too, is familiar. As is Kouji fumbling for the light switch, after, the bathroom door closing behind him, the sound of running water. Araki finds his rumpled clothes and pulls them back on.

He rifles through the pockets of Kouji's discarded jacket: wallet, keys, receipts from a convenience store, a pack of cigarettes. Araki picks at the plastic wrapping. It'd be funny if it weren't so predictable.

The bathroom door opens. Kouji stares at him; Araki opens his mouth to say — what? _Sorry for going through your stuff_ , or maybe, _Guess you didn't quit after all?_

Kouji goes to his desk and roots through the top drawer. "Here." 

Araki reacts just in time to catch the lighter tossed at him. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not here." Kouji shrugs on his jacket. "My manager has the nose of a bloodhound."

"You let her into your apartment?"

"She let herself in."

Past tense. Kouji snags the unopened pack from his unmoving hands. Araki follows him outside, down three flights of stairs and behind the building. A sleek yellow motorcycle is parked next to the bike rack.

"Sweet ride."

"My neighbor's." Kouji hands him a cigarette, plastic wrapper crumpling in his fist. "Should've heard his wife yelling when he brought it home."

"Bet she's regretting not making him get life insurance."

"Yeah, well." Kouji tucks the cigarette between his lips.

Araki clicks the lighter; Kouji cups his hands around the flickering flame, easy as anything. Muscle memory, or something like that.

He's always hated the brand that Kouji smoked. 

"So," Araki says.

Kouji exhales. "She dumped me, this time."

"Guess that makes you even."

"Yeah. Unless you count the time she tried to end things before I'd even asked her out."

"Can't dump someone you were never dating in the first place."

"Only technically." Kouji takes a long drag, flicks away the ash. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Why'd you come over?"

Araki watches his own cigarette burn. "You asked."

A beat. "Damn, Arayan." His tone sounds more worried than anything, which — when Araki looks up, Kouji is giving him the look that's usually reserved for particularly insufferable kouhai. "Is that why you have three missed calls from Yuuya?"

Araki has his phone out before his brain fully catches up. He narrows his eyes. "Why are you snooping on my phone? When did you even—"

"I just saw when it fell out of your pocket," Kouji says. "You were — well, otherwise occupied. And understandably so."

"Praising yourself again?"

"If the shoe fits."

"Didn't realize we're talking about _shoes_ ," Araki grumbles, and Kouji actually laughs at that. 

Araki glances at his phone and confirms that yes, he does have a slew of missed calls from Yuuya — three, plus voicemail. He deletes it.

Kouji stubs out his cigarette. "We should stop doing this."

"I only smoke when you do."

"No, I meant—" Kouji makes a vague gesture. "Honestly, I thought you'd figure things out on your end first. But if you're not gonna help me — well, this never solved anything to begin with. You know?"

"Um, no?" Araki tosses the rest of his cigarette. "It's not like we're a thing. Wasn't that the whole point?"

"Right. It was." Kouji looks at him, steady and sure. "And I'm not saying it didn't do the trick. But me and Ayumi — we might get back together next week, or she might divorce me ten years from now, if we ever get there. Either way, that's something. Unlike — well, this." Kouji might be smiling; it's hard to tell. "Besides," he adds, "you don't even like me."

Maybe not, but. "What do you like about _her?_ "

"I just do." Kouji says the words the way someone might speak of absolutes. "I mean — why do you like Zukki?"

This is the part where he would scoff, normally. Crack a joke. Lodge a disclaimer that he ought to just get printed on a business card, for all the times he's danced around the question. 

He never even noticed when it stopped being terrifying and just became exhausting instead.

Maybe Kouji's right; they need to stop doing this.

Araki sighs. "Damned if I know." 

 

* * *

 

He doesn't remember getting home, but when he wakes up it's in his own bed and to the sound of someone puttering around in his kitchen, humming tunelessly along to the radio alarm he'd forgotten to switch off.

Araki sits up slowly. His throat feels like it's clogged with cement, and there's a magnitude five headache reducing his brain to rubble.

He throws a pillow at the door, misses, knocks a picture frame off the bookshelf instead. It hits the floor with a wince-worthy _crack_.

Zukki's head pops around the corner. "Oh. You're awake."

"Your fault," Araki croaks. "What're you doing?"

"I made tea!" Zukki walks over with two steaming mugs, and Araki opens his mouth to protest — _Watch it, you'll burn yourself!_ — because it's instinct, by now. But somehow, Zukki gets all the way from the door to the bed without doing anyone a life-threatening injury. "It's hot, careful."

Araki stares at the mug placed into his hands. He looks slowly back up at Zukki. Zukki lifts both eyebrows because he's never figured out how to isolate just one.

There can be only one explanation for this implausible series of events.

"I'm dead," Araki concludes. "I fell into a ditch last night, and this is the afterlife."

"Mmhmm." Zukki cocks his head in a thinking pose. "That, or I got a very angry voicemail from Yuuya, and as much as I value my beauty sleep, I also value my theoretical ability to produce grandchildren for my longsuffering mother. So, you know — you should probably let him know that you're alive."

"Still not convinced I am." Araki sips his tea, and nearly spits it back out as hot water scalds his mouth. " _Fuck_." The sudden motion redoubles the seismicity besetting his skull. "Ow, god. Death shouldn't hurt this much."

"I agree. Here." Zukki takes the mug from his unresisting hands and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water, dropping two painkillers into Araki's palm. "I'd give you something stronger, but you've probably had enough."

Araki mumbles a cursory _fuck you_ around the pills in his mouth, before downing half the glass in one gulp. He closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe.

The bed dips when Zukki sits down. "Do you want breakfast?"

"Please don't set my apartment on fire."

"I can make toast."

"Zukki—"

"Eggs?"

"Why are you here?" 

The pause goes on forever. "I got your text," Zukki says finally. "Yuuya said you sounded upset."

"I was _drunk_ , okay?" Araki opens his eyes to glare at Zukki, whose brow furrows. "Not when I texted you. But after, I went out and—" _Kouji's hand on his thigh, Kouji's mouth against his, Kouji on his knees—_ "I don't even remember calling Yuuya."

"How much did you drink?"

"Too much, obviously." Araki scrubs a hand over his face. "That, or I'm getting old."

"Happens to the best of us."

"You'd know."

There's a light touch on his wrist. Araki doesn't flinch, exactly, but Zukki withdraws his hand quickly enough. It's not like he didn't expect it; Araki is awake enough now to know that his clothes still smell of sex and smoke.

Except — "C'mere," says Zukki, patting his thigh.

Araki stares at him. "What?"

"You'll make your headache worse, grimacing like that. Come here." Zukki scoots further up on the bed. When Araki doesn't move, Zukki raises both eyebrows — and both hands, too. "Magic touch, remember?"

And yeah, he remembers: long days of filming, even longer rehearsals and performances, year after year of the general mayhem that was any given day in their combined schedules. On busses and planes and the occasional park bench — Araki would commandeer Zukki's shoulder or lap as an impromptu pillow, often without so much as a by-your-leave, because at some point in their decade-long friendship, personal space had turned into things shared as a matter of course. 

_You'll get wrinkles,_ Zukki would say, smoothing Araki's bangs away from his face. Or, more likely, prodding his cheek and grinning at the resultant growl of displeasure.

Araki can't remember how many times he's dozed off while Zukki massaged his temples. 

He also can't remember the last time they did this. 

"I need to shower." It sounds feeble even to his own ears.

"The shower's not going anywhere, Arayan."

"And you are?"

"No," says Zukki. He tugs on Araki's sleeve, and Araki feels himself folding at just that much. "But I'm also not an inanimate object, so."

He lets himself be pulled over and down. Shuts his eyes. Zukki's jeans smell like detergent and tea. His hands are cool and much, much softer than you'd expect of a guy who's not so much _willowy_ as _stick-figure-come-to-life_.

Little by little, the tension seeps away. Araki only realizes how hard he'd been clenching his jaw when he breathes out — and, this time, it doesn't hurt.

"All right?" Zukki asks quietly.

Araki makes a contented noise. Words don't seem worth the effort, just then.

He loses track of time. His eyelids are starting to feel heavy again when Zukki says, 

"I get if you don't want to talk right now, but you can't send someone a cryptic text message like that and not expect some questions." A pause. "I mean, I know no one bothers with Jinnai's cryptic angst anymore, but that's just because there's so _much_ of it. And anyway, Makki's been keeping an eye on him—"

Araki snorts. "Both eyes, I bet."

"Yeah, well." He can hear Zukki's smile without opening his eyes. "Can you blame him?"

"Makki? Or Jinnai?"

"Either." Zukki's hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck. "Anyway, I'm just saying. I was pretty clueless when Adachi dropped out, and same with Channaka. What's done is done and all — but I'll be damned if I won't take a clue now when it's being handed to me on a silver platter. You know?"

The silence isn't as deafening as he expected, maybe because he can still hear Zukki's even breathing, in synch with his own. 

Araki opens his eyes. "I'm not Adachi."

"I know."

"And on a scale of one to Channaka—"

"—you're well beyond this scale-maker's imagination," Zukki finishes for him. "Arayan, I _know_. And the reason I know is because you told me. You know what I'm saying?"

"What _are_ you saying?"

"You've been avoiding Adachi."

"He told me to leave him alone."

"He didn't mean it. You know how he gets, he's always—"

"No. Zukki." Araki sits up so he can look his friend in the eye. "Remember that time we all went out, with Yuuya, about a year ago?"

"You mean the time you ditched halfway through dinner?"

"Yeah. Right after Adachi pulled me aside to say — and I quote — _please don't touch me, Araki-san_. Because apparently, on a scale of one to Channaka, he's the reverse Shirota."

"He— What does that even mean?"

"The more he drinks, the straighter he gets. Which, you know, whatever floats his boat. Point being, I'd love it if we all went back to how it was ten years ago. But seeing as we're all adults now with our own lives and choices — well, this is me, honoring Adachi's choice to be uncomfortably heterosexual."

Zukki opens his mouth, then closes it again. 

And it's funny, sort of, because the last time Araki saw Zukki so at a complete loss was way, way back when they were rehearsing for the goddamned Yamabuki musical. Except back then, Araki would have laughed it off. Keeping secrets was no big deal when you only had two or three to keep, and a best friend to carry the weight of the rest.

Araki slides off the bed and onto his feet. 

"I'm gonna take a shower," he informs the room at large, because Zukki still hasn't said a word, and if he doesn't want to engage, then, well — Araki's never held any delusions about being the better half of anyone, least of all himself. "You can tell Yuuya I'm alive. And that I don't need a babysitter."

He shuts the bathroom door without waiting for a response.

 

* * *

 

When he emerges from the shower, Zukki is gone.

Araki goes to the kitchen and finds two mugs in the sink, the kettle on the stove half-full of lukewarm water. He pours it out, washes the mugs, puts everything back where it belongs.

He strips the bedsheets and stuffs them into the hamper along with his clothes from the night before. He opens a window and stands there, shivering, as the scent of a cold October morning fills his apartment and his lungs.

He has the day off. He has a notebook full of songs that he'd said he'd finish before summer's end. He has nothing else to distract him, for once.

His phone pings a soft, sweet sound. 

_Forgot I had a meeting with Okamura,_ the text from Zukki reads. And, _Let's get dinner tonight. Just you and me._

No questions, no apologies. Araki sits on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest as he stares at his phone. It makes sense, he supposes, given that he never asked for either of the above.

 _sure,_ he writes back, and, _i don't really want to talk about it jsyk_

 _Okay,_ Zukki replies easily enough. _I'll pick you up at 8?_

_such a gentleman... you know most guys just tell their date to meet them at the designated time and place, right?_

_Guess I'm the guy your mother never warned you about._

And it's good, probably, that things like that can still make him laugh.

 _BTW,_ reads Zukki's next text, _you going to Yuuya's thing?_

Araki starts to type _what thing?_ — which is when the email alert pops up. He opens it.

It's an invitation. From Yuuya. For a birthday party. 

For his cat.

_Gifts optional. Booze mandatory._

Araki reads the email once, twice, then laughs until he can't see the words anymore for the tears in his eyes. 

It's 10:30 on a Sunday morning. His apartment is freezing, with the window open, he can barely feel his fingers as he taps out a new text message, and it's not enough — never has been enough — but it doesn't seem so important, right then. He rereads what he's typed, just to make sure.

_i'm alive. did you know they make wine for cats? i hope ebita is old enough to drink (in cat years)_

He hits send, and waits. 

The reply comes not five minutes after. But Araki doesn't see it until hours later, waking slowly from an unexpected nap to find that afternoon sunlight has turned everything honey-hued and warm.

The text from Yuuya was just one word:

_okay._


End file.
